Uneasy
by yorsnart
Summary: Haru notices it the second Kisumi walks through the door. Something is off. His steps are heavy and his shoulders are drawn and he's much too quiet. Kisumi isn't naturally quiet and this isn't him keeping to himself and toning down his vibrancy to accommodate Haru's comfortability. This is a dragging, lackluster kind of quiet. (sick!fic. emeto fuel. pure fetish-y guilty pleasure.)
a/n: kisuharu sickfic! emetophilia.

* * *

Haru notices it the second Kisumi walks through the door. Something is off. His steps are heavy and his shoulders are drawn and he's much too quiet. Kisumi isn't naturally quiet and this isn't him keeping to himself and toning down his vibrancy to accommodate Haru's comfortability. This is a dragging, lackluster kind of quiet.

Haru chews the inside of his cheek, but he doesn't probe him. If Kisumi wanted to talk about it, he would. He knows he can. They have that understanding between them. So Haru leaves him be and goes about making dinner.

Only Kisumi is uninterested in eating. He shoves the mackerel around his plate unenthused, elbows on the table and chin propped in one of his palms. Sometimes he gets sick of mackerel. Haru has been trying to reduce the frequency in which he makes it, somewhat.

But if that were what Kisumi were unhappy about, it's not like he wouldn't say anything. Mackerel has caused little spats here and there before. Haru is confused and growing more concerned.

"Are you ok-"

Kisumi abruptly shoves away from the table and darts down the hall, careening into the bathroom. Moments later a hefty, thick splash punctuates the sound of retching. Gasping softly in bewilderment, Haru gets up and trots after him.

His boyfriend is on his knees on the tile, hunched over a chunky puddle of partially digested stomach contents spilled out before the toilet. He turns to Haru with streaks still shiny on his chin and swallows.

"Uh…Think you can grab me a towel? I didn't make it…"

"I'll clean it up," Haru murmurs as he fetches a couple towels from the closet.

"I got it," Kisumi insists. "It's my mess."

Haru crouches and begins wiping it up anyway, wrinkling his nose at the pungent sour odor. "You could have told me you were sick."

"I'm not sick."

Haru shoots him a hard stare.

Kisumi winces under it and offers a tight, sheepish smile. "Well I didn't think I was that sick…"

No sooner has he finished his sentence than his face adopts the pigment of a dead fish's underbelly. He scrabbles the short length to get to the porcelain throne, head snapping forward. He vomits again, coughing and sputtering harshly as more syrupy chunks slap the toilet water.

Concern bubbles in Haru's chest and tightens his frown.

"Ugh. Don't look at me," Kisumi pleads. "I'm disgusting."

"Ill," Haru corrects with a click of the tongue. He gathers up the sodden towels and tosses them in the washing machine, rinsing his hands off before he returns to Kisumi.

"How long have you been sick?"

Kisumi winces guiltily. "Don't look at me like that, Haru, I'm okay. It's just a stomachache."

Haru reaches out and lays the back of his hand to Kisumi's cheek. Heat prickles against his skin, all the more worrisome.

"You feel warm."

"Your hands are just cold."

"Kisumi."

"I'm really okay," he insists, pushing himself to his feet and seemingly unaware that wet spots stain his knees. He leans on the sink for support and grimaces as he swallows again. Whether it's from holding back or ridding acidic aftertastes, Haru can't tell.

"If you're done in here, you should go lie down."

"I don't want to contaminate the bed," groans Kisumi. "Then I'll get you sick…too…" He trails off and whips back around just quick enough to aim into the toilet. Haru presses his lips together and puts a hand on his back, rubbing in soothing, circular motions as Kisumi spews into the bowl.

"You stay here until you're finished," Haru murmurs. "I'll set up the couch, okay?"

Kisumi nods weakly and a small, reedy noise slips out of him before he pukes again. Haru pads out and quietly shuts the door behind him. He knows Kisumi really doesn't want to be seen in the throes of nausea and there's not much Haru can do for him anyway.

What Haru can do is make the couch nice and comfortable for him. He folds a blanket over and lays it out over the cushions. He gets a few pillows from the bedroom and another blanket for Kisumi to cover up with. For good measure, he puts a new bag in the trashcan and places it within reaching distance.

Everything is ready when Kisumi emerges from the bathroom, one arm around his stomach.

"Do you feel any better?" Haru asks.

"Mhm." Kisumi flashes him a pained smile that does not help his cause at all.

"You should change," Haru prompts gently.

"Right." Kisumi wobbles his way to the bedroom and Haru keeps a close watch all the while.

Stubborn and sick don't mix well. Haru can't make him accept help but he can keep an eye on him and be prepared to offer it anyway.

* * *

In the morning he's worse.

Haru wakes up not to his alarm, but to the sound of a thump and a very loud splash. Painful retching follows and Haru sits up in bed, blinking blearily and immediately concerned.

Last night Kisumi hadn't thrown up any more. He'd just spent the rest of the evening resting on the couch. He'd even managed to get down some plain rice and broth Haru had heated for him.

His gagging echoes through the apartment and another unpleasant round of splashing follows. Haru winces and climbs out of bed, quietly treading to the bathroom.

Kisumi is heaving, cheeks brightly flushed. He wipes a slug of wet remains from his mouth with his knuckle and then shifts his glassy gaze to Haru.

"Sorry…didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm not worried about that." Haru blows his bangs out of his face. "Are you alright?"

"Not feeling so good," Kisumi admits, a preface to the greening of his complexion in the next moment. He bows forward, another rancid stream gushing from his lips.

Haru sighs softly through his nose and kneels down beside him. He massages Kisumi's back and finds his shirt damp with sweat. There's more heat coming off of him than there was the night before. It's radiating from him like the hot glow of a campfire.

"You can go back to bed," he croaks. "I think I'm done."

Haru doesn't miss the way his arm trembles when he reaches over to flush the toilet.

"My alarm goes off soon anyway. Do you want to go to bed?"

Kisumi shakes his head. "I feel a little better sitting up."

"Okay, but you don't have to sit on the bathroom floor." Haru stands and carefully brings Kisumi up with him.

Kisumi submits, giving in to being led back to the couch. His stubbornness fallen to the wayside, he lets Haru tuck the blanket around his shivery shoulders and doesn't fight the thermometer. He's definitely too obedient to be okay. Haru knows that even before the thermometer flashes with a concerning **38.8** reading.

"Don't go to work today," Haru murmurs. "You need to rest."

Kisumi makes a noise of assent and leans his head back. "It's high?"

"A little. Do you want me to stay with you?"

"Aw, Haru, no." Kisumi smiles. It's feeble but it's genuine. "You can't skip practice. You have a race in two weeks."

Haru knows he's right. He needs to be in top form and his coach will kill him if he misses a practice.

Kisumi reaches out and folds his hand over Haru's, offering a comforting squeeze. "I'll be okay, Haru. I'll just relax and catch up on all the romance dramas you can't stand."

Haru hesitantly nods and presses a tender kiss to his too warm forehead.

* * *

Practice seems to take forever. The chlorine in the pool seems too potent. The atmosphere at the pool side feels too thick. He can't get used to the water or keep his eyes off the clock for very long. He's distracted and it isn't lost on his coach, but his times are still too good for her to complain.

When practice is at last over, Haru keeps his shower short. He only showers for long enough to rinse the chlorine off his skin and then he bids his coach goodbye.

He hits a convenience store on the way home to pick up some things just in case. Cool patches, ginger tea and disinfectant. Onions he considers, but ultimately dismisses. Those are for colds. He pays and leaves.

Haru normally takes the stairs to stay in shape but takes the elevator today just to get to the apartment faster.

"I'm home," he calls softly as he steps over the threshold.

Kisumi isn't on the couch anymore. Haru is immediately worried that he went to work anyway. Setting the bag down on the table, he peeks around and realizes that this fear at least was for naught. Kisumi is passed out in the bathroom, one cheek on the toilet seat.

Haru shuffles over and wrinkles his nose at the yellowish brown vomit that fills the bowl and speckles the seat. He pointedly flushes and the noise is enough to rouse his boyfriend.

Kisumi lifts his head and looks around, semi-alert. There's a red blotch on his cheek where the toilet seat left an imprint and his gaze is hazy.

"Mm…Haru? Don't you have practice?"

Haru's gut lurches with alarm. "I _went_ to practice, Kisumi. I've been gone for five hours."

"Oh. Right, yeah…sorry. I must've fell asleep."

Haru palms his forehead and hisses between his teeth. Kisumi is broiling. He shudders at Haru's touch and wraps his arms around his middle.

Haru hauls him up and practically carries him to the living room. He's dead on his feet and sticky with sweat, blisteringly hot to be close to. Haru gently pushes him down and drapes the blanket over him. He tries to be careful, but the motion is still too sudden and Kisumi instantly greens.

Haru swings the rim of the trashcan under his chin just in time to catch the bilious fluid that sputters form his mouth.

"Damn," Kisumi mutters. He's glowering at the trashcan with vague disappointment.

Haru puts it back down and lightly brushes back soaked pink bangs. "Do you think you could keep down some tea? It might help your stomach."

Between the fever, the sweating and the frequent vomiting, Kisumi is bound to be dehydrated and Haru doesn't want to let that get any more serious than it already might be. The possibility this warrants a hospital trip is suddenly overwhelmingly present in Haru's mind.

"Sure," mumbles Kisumi. "That'd be nice."

He slumps back boneless, his eyes half-closed. Haru continues petting his hair for another moment or so to soothe him and then gets up. He puts the teapot on and opens a package to have it ready. He then gets the box of cool patches and goes back to the living room.

He takes one out and peels off the plastic backing, smoothing it to Kisumi's forehead.

Kisumi's lashes flutter as he frowns. "S'cold, Haru."

"You have a fever," Haru reminds him. "It's going to help you."

Speaking of which, Haru wants to keep tabs on that. He slips the thermometer under Kisumi's tongue for the second time that day without a challenge. Kisumi is never this passive. He doesn't even like to admit he's sick, let alone submit. He's far too quiet and pliable and he could barely stand and all of this is very, very wrong.

Haru's anxiety climbs with the numbers on the thermometer. It beeps to proclaim a temperature spike to **39.6**. Haru exhales a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. Guilt clenches his chest like a fist as worry notches up his pulse. He should have stayed with him. He should have looked after him. He should have–

"Haruka," Kisumi mumbles as he tugs on his sleeve. "Quit worrying. M'gonna be okay. I got you."

Haru lowers the thermometer. He feels marginally reassured but he's still uneasy. "It might be time to see a doctor."

"Nah. I'll sleep it off. Don't look so scared." The corner of Kisumi's mouth quirks up. "S'just the stomach flu. I'm not dying."

Haru purses his lips. "If you can't keep the tea down, I'm taking you to the hospital. Or at least calling Makoto."

"Mm…if it makes you feel better."

"I want you to feel better," Haru says, not at all encouraged by the slur in his boyfriend's sentences.

"M'starting to," Kisumi promises as his eyes flicker closed.

Haru lets him nap until the kettle whistles. Dehydration is a pressing concern so he nudges Kisumi awake and coaxes a few small sips of tea at a time.

Kisumi obliges easily enough, though he grimaces.

"Are you going to be sick again?"

Kisumi shakes his head.

Satisfied for the moment, Haru lets him go back to sleep. He runs his fingers through his hair and strokes his oven-hot cheeks. Kisumi has always been comforted by touch. Touching isn't Haru's favorite form of affection at all, but there isn't much he can do beyond offering comfort and keeping close. He holds his hand and twines their fingers together, carefully monitoring the rise and fall of his chest.


End file.
